


Nights Like This

by ponderinfrustration



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay
Genre: Children, F/M, Illness, Kay AU, Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-29 01:35:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8470537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: Erik's rest is disturbed by his son, and Christine hopes that they still have many long years ahead of them.





	

It is the shifting of the bed that wakes him, heart pounding. In truth he has not been sleeping, merely dozing and slight though the movement is it is enough to jar the pain in his chest. It is not so very bad as it was but it lances through him, winding the breath out of his lungs. He gasps, coughs, a small hand patting his cheek.

“Papa? Papa?” The little voice reaches his ears, trembling and he groans, swallows the next cough, the pain still throbbing as his eyes flutter open.

Little Antoine swims into view, his pinched face soft and pale in the glow of the lamplight. “Maman says you’re very sick and need to rest. Do you feel better, Papa?”

His musters a smile for his boy, stretches his fingers enough to brush his little hand. “A little.”

Antoine nods solemnly, blue eyes wide, “Can you play your violin soon?” Tears shine in his eyes and Erik aches to hold him close but if he moves the pain will spread down his arm. With a tremendous effort he raises his right arm – his good arm, now – and cups Antoine’s sunken cheek.

“Soon, maybe.” It is a promise, he hopes, and not a lie. “Don’t cry, please.” His heart twists painfully to think that his illness has hurt his precious boy so, and Antoine nods, rubs his tears away. “Wh-Where is your mother?”

“Putting Vie to bed.” His voice trembles. “Can I stay with you?”

“Of course.”

The small smile that crosses Antoine’s face warms Erik and he braces himself for the further shifting of the bed. Antoine settles his head on Christine’s pillow and curls up, cuddling into Erik’s arm. “I want you to get well, Papa,” he murmurs, little fingers wrapping around Erik’s wrist. “I miss you.”

Erik shifts, leans on his useless left arm, the tightness in his chest swelling as he reaches out and pulls Antoine closer to him, breathing hard as the pain eases. “I will,” he whispers, “I will, I promise.” He has to get well, has to. He could not do that to Christine and the children. His heart flutters a painful beat and he stifles a groan, gritting his teeth. He will get well.

Antoine nods and nuzzles closer, his eyes slipping closed. And Erik would gladly suffer this pain, this throbbing in his chest, would magnify it a hundred-fold if it meant he could be certain of sparing Antoine the same agony. But it was beyond his means to give him a perfect face though Sylvie was fortunate enough to take after Christine and all he can do is hope that his dear, precious boy will never have to bear his heart rebelling against him. He inclines his head, presses a kiss to those thin dark curls. “It will be all right,” he breathes, as if by saying it aloud he can ensure it will be true. “It will be all right.”

Antoine yawns, curls into a tighter ball. “Will you tell me a story, Papa?”

The tiredness that has dogged him the last two days pulls at Erik’s eyes again, but he sighs and nods, unable to repress the twitching at the corners of his lips. “I think I can manage one.” With infinite care he draws the bedsheets tighter around himself and Antoine, half-curling around his boy as much as he can without stirring the pain more. “There once…was a girl called Little Lotte…”

* * *

 

It does not take long for Sylvie to fall asleep. The baby – less a baby, now, almost a year old – drops off in Christine’s arms as she softly sings to her, and with infinite gentleness Christine sets her into the crib. She does not wake, only snuffles slightly, her little fingers curled. Christine turns down the lamp and slips from the room, easing the door closed behind her.

Antoine. She told him to get ready for bed, and she would be along when Sylvie fell asleep to tuck him in. He’ll be waiting for her, but she must check on Erik first. It will soon be time for his tea and he might be looking for anything.

It is two days, today, since he collapsed. He was reading the paper when the flicker of pain crossed his face and his eyes rolled in his head. Thankfully Nadir was there to catch him, and help her get him to bed. He was already coming around when they settled him in, and refused to let them send for a doctor. (“I’m fine,” he whispered, eyes heavy, hand cold in hers. “I’m fine.”) The pain has lingered, this time, though it was a little better this morning and-

Her eyes sting with tears. She suppresses the memories, wipes them away. The remembered worry and fear will only make her cry and if she cries he’ll get upset and if he gets upset it might bring him on and only make him worse. She swallows hard against the ache in her chest and straightens herself, smoothing one hand over her hair and one over her dress. Later she can cry, not now. Later.

Six years. They’ve had six good years together and she prays, every night and especially now, that they’ll have twenty more. And if they don’t, if-

Those thoughts, too, she pushes away.

She is surprised when she finds Antoine curled up asleep beside his father, Erik’s arm draped around him. He has been pleading with her, the last two days, to “see Papa” and each time she refused because “Papa needs to rest.” She should be upset with him for disobeying her, but she cannot bear to be, not when they both look so peaceful, Erik’s face smoothed free of pain.

Let them rest. Gently, so as not to disturb them, she leans over and presses a kiss, first to Antoine’s forehead and then to Erik’s. Neither of them stir, and she strokes Erik’s hair, easing the bedsheets up to his chin. And is she imagining it? Hoping it? Or has a little of his colour returned since she last checked in on him?

She hopes the colour is really there, and turns the lamp down, her eyes prickling again. Perhaps she will have a little tea, and then, maybe, return Antoine to his own bed. “I love you,” she breathes, and kisses each of them again. “I love you.”


End file.
